


pass the maple syrup (it's not too late for dancing)

by rosekings



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Mileven Week 2018, and some crying, fluff and waffles and dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-09 14:35:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16451732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosekings/pseuds/rosekings
Summary: El giggles, a sweet sound that Mike much prefers to her weeping from earlier. He leans on his elbows and stabs at a piece of her waffle, popping it into his mouth. She doesn’t protest.





	pass the maple syrup (it's not too late for dancing)

**Author's Note:**

> [Mileven Week 2018](https://mileven-week.tumblr.com) \- Day 5: _first date_
> 
> an extra as all hell title? that's me!! come cry with me about mileven on [tumblr!](https://dustinhendrsn.tumblr.com)

Mike wakes up in the Waffle House.

It takes him a while to realize this, though. After drifting back into consciousness he spends a minute with his eyes closed, wondering why the lighting on the other side is a cozy yellow instead of the orange glow of the lava lamp that sits on his nightstand. Come to think of it, his head is resting on his folded arms, which isn’t normal, and the surface underneath said arms is solid and has a papery texture - also not normal.

He peels his sticky-from-sleep eyes open. The first thing he sees is himself, reflected in the glass window next to him. 

_You look like a zombie,_ he thinks dully.

 _You’re just insulting yourself,_ his reflection tells him.

_Whatever._

Taking a deep breath in an effort to feel more awake, he lifts his head up and peels his arms off the spread of papers and textbooks under him. He’s sitting in a booth made of worn red fabric that’s peeling at the edges, and a plate full of - presumably waffle - crumbs sits in front of him. He wraps a hand around his mug with a dried trail of coffee down the side; it’s cold and long since empty. When he clicks on his phone, the time reads 2:13am. The last time he remembers looking at it, it was somewhere around 11pm.

He sighs, rubbing his eyes with his fists. Seeing the chemistry notes in front of him, he recalls now: he came to study for his finals. He looks around the restaurant. It’s empty, as it very well should be at this hour of the morning, save for a student that just walked through the front door. He realizes it must have been the shrill bell above said door that woke him up.

“Uh, are you the only one here?” the student asks. Mike looks over to the open kitchen, devoid of staff.

“I shouldn’t be,” he says, clearing his throat when his voice comes out dry and cracked. “Uh, I can go check?”

He’s not sure why he’s offering, but the stranger quickly shakes their head and backs towards the door as if they suspect Mike of being a serial killer.

“It’s fine. Have a good night.”

The bell rings again and a moment later, they’re gone.

It _is_ a bit strange, Mike decides, that no employees came out at the sound of the bell, and even stranger that nobody kicked him out when he fell asleep.

Abandoning his textbooks from hell, he scoots out of the booth. It feels wrong to raise his voice so instead of calling out, he slips behind the bar and into the room off the kitchen. Lined with fridges and shelves of extra dishes, it’s just as empty as everywhere else.

He finds another door wedged next to a sink and slowly pushes it open.

Whatever he expected, it wasn’t this. Lit by a bare bulb dangling from the ceiling, the small storage room is filled with cardboard boxes of what Mike guesses are extra ingredients. Pressed against the wall between two towers of boxes is the missing employee, evidenced by the bright yellow Waffle House shirt peeking out from under her hoodie. Her knees pulled up to her chest and her head buried in her arms, she’s in the middle of crying, loud and uncaring of who sees.

Mike takes a step closer and cautiously reaches out to touch her shoulder. “Hey -“

Her sobs abruptly cut off with a choked noise, her head jerking up so fast Mike fears for her neck.

“Who are you?” she asks, voice shaky.

“Um, I’m Mike. Are you okay?”

She shakes her head sadly. Her cheeks are red and flushed, her eyes tired and tear-filled. Some of her light brown curls are plastered to her temples and cheekbones, and she absently peels one away.

“I’m just -“ she says, interrupted by a hiccup, “- so stressed. I’ve got finals and I don’t think I’m going to do very well and - _hic_ \- I ripped my favorite sweatpants earlier and then I - _hic_ \- was on Instagram and I saw this video about the animal shelter and it was - _hic_ \- so _sad,_ Mike! All those _dogs!_ ”

She breaks off in a stifled wail, pressing the sleeve of her gray hoodie to her nose. 

“Oh man, okay, hey,” Mike starts gently, kneeling down next to her as comfortably as he can in the small space. “Look, it’s okay. No one ever feels like they’re going to ace their finals - I mean, I sure as hell don’t, but I know it’s all gonna work out alright.”

She sniffles, looking at him with dubious brown eyes. “Really?”

“Yeah, definitely. And the dogs? They’re all getting good homes. Lots of people go in and adopt them every day. Those ads are just guilt-trips.”

She contemplates this, her gaze sliding to a faraway point over Mike’s shoulder. Just when he thinks she’s going to burst into tears again, she gives a solemn nod and brushes her cheeks off.

“You’re right.” She sounds more like she’s convincing herself than agreeing with Mike. “Guilt-trips.”

“Yeah.”

She sits there a minute more, composing herself, while Mike awkwardly sits beside her. Finally she takes a deep breath, exhaling through pursed lips, and brings her eyes back to his. 

“Sorry about all that.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. Are you, uh, ready to get up?”

She nods, and Mike moves to stand in the doorway to give her space. Despite how she still looks incredibly sad, her curls messy from being squashed up against the wall and her eyes more than a little red, Mike thinks she’s rather pretty.

“I’m going go clean up a bit in the bathroom,” she says quietly.

“Yeah, yeah, no problem. There’s nobody out there - take your time.” 

He follows her out into the restaurant and while she disappears into the bathroom, he sizes up the waffle-making station. He could use a waffle or two. _She_ could use a waffle or six. _How hard can it be?_

_Maybe she’s allergic to gluten._

_But I don’t know how to make a gluten-free waffle._

_She wouldn’t be working at the Waffle House if she was allergic to gluten, dumbass._

Sometimes Mike thinks he has three different people living in his body. He listens to the most reasonable voice, turns on the iron, and Googles a recipe for waffle batter. 

It’s a relaxing job, filled with the noises of the kitchen appliances and the buzzing of the lights overhead. By the time the girl emerges from the bathroom, he has a considerable stack of fluffy golden waffles beside him.

“Hey,” he says when she catches his eye.

“Hey.” 

She looks a lot more composed now, her hands stuffed in a gray hoodie and her eyes considerably less puffy. She slides into a chair at the bar, raising an eyebrow at him.

“I thought I was the one getting paid minimum wage here,” she says. Mike shrugs, setting the plate in front of her with a fork and a syrup container.

“I was hungry. Um, don’t worry, I’ll mark them on my tab.”

She smiles so softly that Mike’s insides do a complicated twist and he has to turn away before he blushes.

“Coffee?”

“Oh, yes, please.”

She begins pouring syrup over her waffles in veritable waterfalls and by the time Mike turns around from starting the coffee, half the container is empty. He leans against the counter, watching amusedly as she devotes one hundred percent of her attention and focus to devouring her early, _early_ breakfast. It’s pretty cute, he thinks.

He slides her coffee next to her and she looks up at him in mild surprise, as if she had forgotten he was there. “Thanks.”

Mike nods. “I can’t really promise it’s Starbucks quality, but…”

“I’m not much of a Starbucks fan,” she says, her _adorable_ nose crinkling with a smile. Mike laughs and takes a sip of his own coffee. He’s beginning to wonder about the schoolwork on the booth across the restaurant - he can’t remember how far he got in his studying before he passed out - when it occurs to him that he has no idea who the girl in front of him is.

“Hey, um, what’s your name?”

She looks up in shock, swallowing before she speaks. “I didn’t tell you my _name?_ ”

“Um, you were kind of preoccupied earlier.”

She lets out a heavy sigh, the kind that says she can’t believe her own forgetfulness, and fishes a nametag out of her jeans pocket, sliding it over to him. Clearly it used to be pinned to her work shirt. “El.”

“Pretty.”

It slips out before he can think about it - it _is_ a pretty name, and he didn’t just say it to be nice - but El doesn’t seem to mind. Her lips just curl up into another one of her shy smiles.

“And you’re Mike.”

“Always have been,” he says, pulling another fork out from under the counter and crossing over to her. “Michael to my mom, because she enjoys making my life terrible in front of my friends.”

El giggles, a sweet sound that he much prefers to her weeping from earlier. He leans on his elbows and stabs at a piece of her waffle, popping it into his mouth. She doesn’t protest.

His eyes flick up to hers and he suddenly realizes how close they are now that he’s just on the other side of the bar. Her eyes are a deep brown, wide and interested in the world and still slightly red. And, as his pulse will not let him forget, very, very close. So is her nose. And her tear-stained cheeks. And her chapped pink lips. _What is your_ problem, _Wheeler?_

He takes another bite as casually as he can and asks about her finals. They chat for a few minutes about it and their classes and majors, but small talk doesn’t seem all that appropriate here in this atmosphere. It’s much too late, too removed from the outside world. Talking just seems like it would tear holes in that veil.

And then, in their easy silence as they finish off the waffles, the sappy, disgustingly romantic part of Mike’s brain lights up with a stupid and absurd idea that doesn’t seem so stupid and absurd in this dim yellow lighting. It feels more than right when he contemplates the curly-haired girl in front of him.

“Do you want to dance?”

She blinks at him. “Dance?”

“Yeah.” He thinks about adding some reasons for it, but again, it doesn’t feel necessary. “Only if you want to.”

“Um, I’ve never - I mean, I don’t really know how.”

Mike shrugs, pulling out his phone. “Neither do I.” He plugs it into the restaurant’s speaker system, turns up his music, and walks out from behind the bar to face El on her stool with what he hopes is an encouraging smile on his face. “Wanna figure it out?”

The smile she lights up in is so joyous and filled with stars that his heart completely melts. She nods, taking his proffered hand and letting him guide them to the middle of the restaurant. After a moment of arranging, they’re dancing, dancing, dancing. First it’s fast and filled with quick steps and swinging arms, their hair flying and their laughter echoing through the building. Then El picks a new playlist and it’s long waltzes to songs that you definitely aren’t supposed to waltz to and a glorious dip that Mike didn’t think he’d be able to pull off and languorous sweeps and slides worthy of a ballroom. Then it changes again and it’s slow and soft and carried through with only whispers of conversation, noses pressed together and arms around waists and heads on shoulders, a haze of tranquility that they get lost in.

They dance for a long, long time. In fact, Mike thinks that time stops existing or turning or moving or whatever it is that time does. All he can think about is El, the one in his arms whose laugh sounds like the color pink and whose hair smells like maple syrup and whose heart he has already fallen ridiculously hard for.

“Is that the sun?” she mumbles, her cheek pressed against his collarbone. They’re barely even moving anymore. He glances out the window at the dawn, the sky a light purple and the thin yellow lines of the sun peeking above the horizon.

“Looks like it.”

He doesn’t really want to separate from her. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows the whole situation is a bit outlandish, considering they just met, but….well. He can’t deny the romantic side of him at this hour.

“Must be pretty early,” she says. “Classes soon. Customers.”

He hums, absently twisting one of her curls around his finger. “Should go.”

“Should.”

After a few more quiet minutes of delaying the inevitable, Mike reluctantly steps back and El sighs contentedly.

“That was…” She falters, shaking her head. “Thank you, Mike.”

He smiles at her. “Maybe I can help you study for those finals sometime.”

She makes a face. “That’s a terrible idea for a second date.”

“Second…” His eyebrows furrow. “When was the first?”

She smiles. “Pretty sure we just had it, aren’t you?”

Mike’s mouth falls open in a silent _oh_ and she laughs, crossing to the bar and unplugging his phone. She types something into it before grabbing her bag and handing the phone back to him.

“Don’t leave me hanging, okay? I promise not to be a crying mess next time.”

He smiles. “I’ll make some more waffles if you are.”

“Mmm, those were good. Maybe I’ll watch a sad movie or another pet adoption ad or something.” 

“Exploiting me? That’s harsh.”

She grins and before he can move, she’s up on her tiptoes, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“See you later, Mike.”


End file.
